


All That Domestic Shit

by lambkind



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ecto-Vagina (Undertale), Edging (Kinda), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Other, Reader has a Penis, References to Depression, Sensitive bones, The self-indulgence continues and doesn't stop., Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambkind/pseuds/lambkind
Summary: Just a regular night shootin the shit with your boyfriend, who's a skeleton.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a rush job. Constructive crit welcome. ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> (The reader has a penis but no gendered pronouns are used, and I wasn't sure whether to put this in the Other category or the M/M category or ??? Please advise.)

You fumble with your keys, trying to balance two bags of groceries in one arm, but you finally manage to get your apartment door open. The light's on, so Sans must be here.

"Honey, I'm home!" you call, grinning, and your eyes find him sprawled on the couch with a beer halfway to his mouth. You're waiting for him to laugh at your greeting, but he looks studiously unimpressed.

"Oh come on," you complain. Lately he's developed a terrible habit: keeping his expression deadpan whenever you're trying to be funny, because he knows it infuriates you. But after a second he cracks, and his toothy grin crinkles up the corners of his eye sockets.

"welcome home, _honey_."

You don't have his self-control; you snicker in response, despite your efforts to suppress it. "Ok don't actually call me that, it's weird."

His gaze swings back to the TV. Still grinning, he says, "sure thing, sweetie."

"God, that's even worse," you say, setting the groceries down on the kitchen table.

"you reap what you sow, kid."

Sans doesn't offer to help you put your groceries away, but you're long past the point of expecting him to exhibit anything like chivalrous behavior. He makes no move to greet you beyond the banter you exchanged when you came through the door. He makes no move at all, in fact, but remains comfortably nestled against the couch cushions, watching your TV and drinking one of your beers like he owns the place. You're used to that too.

Those kinds of things annoyed you at first. But then you realized that... you liked it. You like having the space _and_ the company. You like that you can come home to someone without them getting in your way, that you can unwind for a few minutes without them demanding your attention. You like that he'll just show up and make himself at home, and you can have him around without having to fuss over him. Somehow it works.

You finish shoving the last of your groceries into the cupboards, then grab a beer for yourself and flop down on the couch beside him. He's watching a rerun of The Bachelor, of all things, and as soon as you join him he starts up a snarky running commentary. He's making fun of it, but he still knows all of the characters' names. You used to wonder how someone so smart could watch something so trashy, but once you started watching with him, you realized that there's something a little relaxing about it.

Sans has a blanket draped over him, but one of his bare feet is sticking out next to you. He frequently wears socks, so this is something of a rare sight. Hiding your delight, you casually curl your fingers around his cold, thin foot. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance slowly in your direction, before returning his attention to the TV. He keeps his expression impassive, but you can see the way the bone softens just a little around the edges of his eye socket, and how the corner of his mouth threatens to twitch up into a wider smile.

You run your thumb in a soothing pattern over what amounts to his instep, the smooth texture of the bones pleasant and comforting under your fingers. Eventually you slip your thumb in between two toes, and carefully stroke the side of one metatarsal, up and down, in a slow, soft motion. Doing this used to make you feel a little squeamish—you can't imagine someone fingering the inside of _your_ foot—but Sans assured you more than once that it feels nice, especially since your hands are so warm.

True to his word, he _looks_ comfortable. His head has sunk down onto one of the cushions, eye sockets half-lidded and sleepy, half-empty can of beer abandoned on the small side table. He probably just wanted to come over and fall asleep.

He doesn't always just _appear_ in your apartment uninvited. But when he does, it's usually because he's feeling... bad. He doesn't exactly say as much; it was something you had to figure out. When he's like this, you usually just watch TV and chat until he falls asleep, and then you carry him to bed and fall asleep spooning him. And then in the morning he's back to his regular shit-eating self.

It gives you no small amount of satisfaction to know that just hanging out with you makes him feel better; that of all the people he's close to, you are the person he goes to for comfort. But still, you wish he'd talk to you about it. Some nights he'll let a few words slip, and you can just _see_ the rest of the words threatening to spill out of him. It can't be good for him to bottle it up. You wonder if tonight's one of those nights.

You decide to give it a shot. Half-joking, you ask, "So whatcha doin here, Sans?"

He raises his head and gives you a look of mild surprise. After a moment, he says, "it's valentine's day."

"It's _what_?" you ask. You stare back at him, utterly shocked, and then you both burst out laughing. You cannot _believe_ that Sans remembered it was Valentine's Day and you didn't. So much for all your speculation about his current mood. You pull yourself over to his side of the couch, crawling on top of him and giggling into his shoulder.

"Sans, I'm fucking sorry," you say between giggles. "I completely forgot, I have nothing planned for this."

"aw c'mon, you know i don't care," he says. "i just wanted to hang out."

There's something a little earnest about the way he says this, and it's enough to make your heart ache. You slip your arms around him and pull him tight against your chest.

"My valentine..." you croon, knowing it'll embarrass him.

"ok, don't get all mushy on me," he says, taking the bait, but his arms go around your neck, and his fingers gently curl into your hair. You press your lips to the ridged column of his throat. He hums appreciatively, and then hungrily, as you open your mouth against him and run your tongue along the ridge between two vertebrae. His hands slide slowly down onto your back.

Hmm... If he just came over for Valentine's Day then maybe he wants to fool around after all. You push yourself up for a moment so you can pull the blanket out from between you. Then, keeping one arm around him, you slip your other hand under his t-shirt and return your lips to his neck.

You love touching him. His body is so weird, and he's sensitive in the strangest places. Like, the inside of his spine; especially on the thick vertebrae just above his sacrum. This is where you focus your attention, running your thumb in languid strokes over the uneven surface, your other fingers wrapped around to touch the blunt facets at the back. Sans isn't super vocal when pleasured, but the quiet whimpering sounds that he _does_ occasionally make are enough to set you on fire. One of his hands slides onto your upper arm, and his other hand slips under you t-shirt to roam over your chest. His fingers feel distinctly in-human, but distinctly familiar, and the sensation of them cold and careful against your soft skin makes your heart beat faster.

You finally slip your hand down into the front of his shorts. Magic, warm and thick and improbable, has pooled in the space under his pelvis to form a facsimile of human genitalia. It was something you had to get used to at first; the not-quite-flesh; the unnatural heat and pliability, when the rest of him is cold as stone. You're used to it now. He's already dripping wet by the time you slide your finger along his slit, making his breath hitch and his fingers dig into your arm. He gently nudges your erection with his knee, smirking.

"whatcha got there, buddy?" he asks. His sarcasm is marred a bit by his breathlessness.

You smirk back. "Oh you know, just a little something for ya."

"for valentine's? you shouldn't've," he says, reaching down to unbuckle your belt. His fingers slip a little against the metal, frictionless, but you let him work it off you on his own. You tug his shorts off while he fumbles with your zipper.

You sigh as you rest your erection against his cunt, and he playfully gyrates his hips, rubbing himself against you. It's rather more work than he would normally put into this. He's really going all out for Valentine's Day... You fight to suppress a laugh, but then forget your amusement as you register the feeling of his slick warmth against your length. You grip his legs, wrapping your hands around the bone just above his knees, and hoist his hips up so you can position yourself at his entrance.

He groans and lets his head fall back against the cushions as you push into him, and you let out your own low groan when you feel him clench around you. How he manages to replicate the feeling of skin and warmth, you have no idea, but it's pretty convincing. And there's something... else. An energy that thrums through him, stimulating and electric, that seems to heighten each sensation as you thrust into him. It can't be anything other than magic.

His fingers dig into your thighs as you pick up the pace, his breathing uneven, voice low and raw when he says your name. You brace one hand against his pelvis and thumb his clit in quick, tight circles, and he squirms under your touch, grinding against you and panting heavily. Suddenly he's getting too close too soon. You slow your thrusts, then come to a stop altogether and lean in close to him, resting your forehead against his.

"Wait for me baby," you murmur, breathless.

"m'tryin," he says, with a shaky laugh. He's holding as still as possible, expression set with concentration. You hold still with him. He never lasts very long. You love it. You love how sensitive he is. You want to suck his cock and edge him for hours until he begs for it. Or run your tongue in hot long strokes over his pubic symphysis and finger the tiny holes in his sacrum until he's thrusting into your mouth. You wonder if he'll want to go another round after this. For now what you want most is to feel him come around you as you fill him up.

"You're really hot like this," you tell him, half to tease him and half because you mean it. He snorts and looks away, hiding his embarrassment behind annoyance. You take the opportunity to kiss him on the forehead, again and again, until he snorts with laughter and pushes your face away.

"alright, cut the shit," he says. His cheekbones are dusted with color. You pull halfway out of him, then slowly press yourself back in, figuring you've waited long enough, and you're rewarded with his long, quiet moan and his arms wrapped around your neck, his face buried against your shoulder as you continue to fuck him. You hold him tight against you, relishing in the feel of his odd, sharp angles, of the cool bone of his skull against the palm of your hand and of his hot, wet cunt squeezed tight around you. His breathing is ragged and labored, hips bucking to meet your thrusts.

"i'm—" he starts to say, but he can't get the words out. You're close now too.

"Yeah, you gonna come for me?" you say, voice rough. He doesn't answer, but his hands grab tight fistfuls of your t-shirt and he half growls, half whines against your shoulder, legs squeezing around your waist, walls clenching and unclenching around your cock. He trembles in your arms. A few more thrusts and you go rigid against him, cock twitching inside of him as you come, warm cheek pressed against cool bone and mouth open in a cry of pleasure.

You lie next to each other, arms around each other, panting. He weakly slaps you on the ass.

"happy valentine's day, you bastard," he says, and you can't help the giddy laughter that bubbles up out of you.

"Bonehead," you say, pulling him tight against you and smooching the side of his skull.

"ok, ok, jeez," he huffs. He sounds pleased and exhausted. You admit to yourself that you really, really like hearing him sound that way.

You want to tell him that you love him, but you can't. Not yet. You're still too afraid of the inevitable moment when he refuses to say it back. On the other hand, he _was_ the one who remembered that it was Valentine's Day. Maybe he's more of a romantic than you thought...

Wait— Oh man. You laugh quietly to yourself. Now that you think about it, his brother was probably the one who told him what day it was. You're surprised he didn't push Sans out the door with a bouquet and a box of chocolates.

"It was Papyrus, wasn't it?" you ask quietly. No answer. "Sans?"

He's already asleep. His eye sockets are shut, and his chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm under your arm. A tender feeling steals over you as you watch him, and you lie still with him for several more minutes. Then you carefully lift him and carry him to bed.


End file.
